Page 7

Four

Isadora’s eyes went wide as she slid to the floor, blood spilling from her neck in a torrent.

As she did, Kitty’s visage seemed to fall away like water, replaced with the face of someone Lydia had never seen before—an icy blond with blue eyes and a smile like a wolf.

Lydia screamed, and her scream seemed to awaken the council, who until now had been watching in silent shock.

The chamber erupted in pandemonium, several council members running for the door, the rest screaming, frozen in fear.

The blond woman knelt by Isadora’s side and lifted her dagger, meaning to finish her work, but Lydia had returned to her senses. She screamed again, a jagged, rage-filled sound, and as she did, she left her body, her projection driving into the woman like a cannon, knocking her to the ground.

The blond woman hit her head on the stone floor with a crack, but she didn’t stay down for long.

She scrambled to her feet, searching for her dagger as Lydia returned to her body.

Lydia had the strength for only one projection attack, but she pursued the woman regardless, forgetting fear or sense, thinking only one thing. Stop her.

She turned to the clutch of elder witches, cowering in the far corner of the ceremonial chamber, and felt a flush of disgust. They’ve never had to fight , Lydia realized with sudden, sickening clarity.

Battle magic was a standard part of the school’s curriculum, but with the academy’s policy of total isolation, the exercise had always been purely theoretical.

Only the academy’s most recent graduates had been prepared for real war.

“Witches,” she shouted, “defend your mistress!”

Sybil was the first to regain her head. She stepped forward and repeated Lydia’s earlier attack, sending her projection out from her body with vicious speed, but the blond witch uttered a word and sidestepped, and Sybil’s attack flashed by harmlessly and crashed into the far wall, shattering the black stone beneath the force of her impact.

Mistress Alice followed, calling out a spell to muddle the senses, but her voice lacked the necessary conviction, and the words fell flat.

The blond witch laughed, and Lydia felt a hard, sharp-edged rage, like a stone beneath her breastbone.

“Astyffn ban,” she spat.

The blond witch froze where she stood for just a moment, caught in the web of Lydia’s words, before a terrible tremor ran through her and she was free of the spell once again.

Spells be damned , Lydia thought, and ran at the woman, intending to throw her to the ground with her own two hands, but the woman drew herself up to her full height and hissed a word in a tongue Lydia had never heard before.

The four elder witches closest to her slumped to the floor.

A second later Lydia felt herself sinking helplessly to the ground, her arms and legs useless.

She tried in vain to speak a word of power that would counter the spell, but found her tongue too heavy to use.

The blond witch grinned, and something about that grin made Lydia remember to be afraid.

It made her think of creatures that hunt their prey in the night. It made her think of death.

The witch walked past Lydia toward the altar, stepping over Isadora’s prone body as she went.

Lydia watched, powerless, but noted with a rush of hope that Isadora’s chest still rose and fell.

The woman reached into the silver bowl and carefully placed the scrap of paper into a tiny case, which she then tucked inside her dress.

Lydia tried to speak, but only a low moan came out.

The witch looked at her with amusement and bent to retrieve her dagger before crouching by Lydia’s side.

She examined her blade, turning it over in her hands, taking her time.

Lydia’s gaze fell on the dagger, the blade still slick with Isadora’s blood.

The bone handle bore a symbol she recognized from her studies—a rune.

Othala, it was called. It meant “homeland.”

The witch took Lydia by the chin, tilting her head to expose the soft flesh of her throat.

Lydia’s breath quickened, bracing for what was to come next.

More than anything she wanted to close her eyes, but she forced herself not to look away.

She could feel her magic pulsing just under her skin, rushing from sheer terror, but with no means of release.

Through the pounding of blood in her ears, she thought she heard a voice calling her name—Sybil’s voice.

“Get away from her!” Sybil shouted.

The blond witch looked up and frowned.

Sybil did not ask a second time. “ Wyrian-lif, wyrian-ban! ” she called. “ Wyrian-lif, wyrian-ban! Wyrian-lif, wyrian-ban! Wyrian-lif, wyrian-ban! ”

Lydia felt Sybil’s protection spell weaving itself into being all around her, prickling her skin.

The blond witch seemed to feel it, too, and dragged her blade across the invisible barrier, rippling the air.

Outside the chamber door, a commotion was building; Lydia could hear cries in the hallway and the drumming of running feet.

The witch seemed to consider her options.

She turned her back on Sybil and leaned closer to Lydia’s face.

Strands of silver hair fell into Sybil’s warding and lifted into the air as if they were carried by electric currents. The witch smiled again.

“Heil Hitler,” she said. And disappeared.

All at once, Lydia could move again. She scrambled across the floor toward where Isadora lay.

Blood poured from the gaping wound in her neck, soaking the front of her dress and pooling on the floor around them.

Isadora was conscious, but her face was a sickening shade of white, her eyes darting around the room like a frightened animal.

The ceremonial chamber smelled strongly of ozone, the unmistakable calling card left behind by every Traveler.

“Isadora, look at me.” Lydia placed her hands to the wound on Isadora’s throat and spoke the words of power she had learned so long ago in Mistress Helena’s classroom. “Siowan-ban, hela-ban, siowan-lif, hela-lif!”

Lydia had never had any special talent for healing, but she was determined to try just the same. Under her shaking fingertips, Isadora’s throat knit itself together but came apart like tissue paper seconds later, again and again, as Lydia frantically chanted.

“Helena, I need you!” In the far corner of the chamber, Helena wept and fretted the edges of her robe between her fingers.

“Helena, please!”

The wound was too deep, and as fast as the skin would heal itself, it would open again a moment later.

Lydia began to cry, but still, she spoke the words, even as Isadora’s eyes went still, even as Lydia’s own sobbing made the syllables unintelligible and the wound stopped closing under her hands.

She said the words, gasping for air, until someone came and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” Lydia hissed, and the hand retreated.

She sat there, cradling Isadora in her arms as her tears fell and mixed with the blood that covered them both.

Finally, she looked up. Half a dozen council members remained, watching Lydia with frozen masks of horror.

The ones who had run away were slowly returning, gathering in the doorway and staring with wide eyes and open mouths.

All looked at Lydia, and she stared back, barely comprehending, holding Isadora’s body in her arms.

“Where did she go?” someone asked.

Mistress Jacqueline sniffed, taking in the rainstorm smell that still clung to the air. “If she’s a Traveler, she could be anywhere.”

“Not just a Traveler, but a Glamourer as well. Why, she made herself look just like Kitty Fraser.”

The words seemed to slither into Lydia’s mind, churning something to the surface.

“Kitty.” She looked up at Sybil, whose eyes widened with sudden, terrible comprehension. “Where is Kitty?”

Lydia sprinted from the chamber. She ran through the great hall, with its kaleidoscopic dome, feeling the glassy eyes of ancient witches and magical beasts leering down at her.

Up the spiraling staircase she ran, through corridors and hallways, until, panting, she reached her own suite. The door was ajar.

“Kitty!” She crashed into the room. Then she saw her.

Kitty lay in the entrance to her own bedroom, on her back, in the same green dress she had been wearing earlier that day. Her arms and legs were splayed at an awkward angle, her eyes fixed on nothing. A dark stain spread from the center of her chest.

Lydia was on the floor. She couldn’t understand what she was seeing—the impossible amount of blood, the cold curl of Kitty’s lifeless fingers.

She heard screaming, and it took several long, horrible moments before she realized that it was coming from her.

Someone came in behind her and tried to gently guide Lydia from the room, but she wouldn’t be moved.

“Kitty,” she wept. “Kitty, Kitty, oh no, oh, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty…”

She lay down on the floor next to her friend, and held her, and howled.

···

Lydia sat in the ceremonial chamber, staring at the blood under her nails as the council spoke in hushed tones around her.

Someone had managed to get her to her feet and wipe most of the blood from her hands, but streaks of it remained on her neck and chest, and her dress was stiff with it.

The rainstorm smell had dissipated, replaced by the tang of copper.

“Arrangements must be made,” Lydia heard someone say. “…announce it to the academy. It must be handled delicately.”

Lydia’s gaze fell on the place where Isadora had died. The body had been taken away, but the blood remained.

“…how much to say about what happened?” someone whispered.

“Why say anything at all?”

Murmurs of agreement filled the room.